


Love With Tongues Of Fire

by WolfAndHound_Archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Marauders' Era, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 13:49:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5930671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfAndHound_Archivist/pseuds/WolfAndHound_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius is having nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love With Tongues Of Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Lassenia, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Wolf and Hound](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Wolf_and_Hound), which was created to make stories posted to the Sirius_Black_and_Remus_Lupin Yahoo! mailing list easier to find. However, even though I still love the fandom, I am no longer active in it and do not have the time to maintain it. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in December 2015. I posted an announcement with Open Doors, but we may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Wolf and Hound collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wolfandhound/profile).

_I'll protect you from the hooded claw,_ Keep the vampires from your door. _When the chips are down,_ I'll be around // With my undying, death-defying love for you.

\--'The Power Of Love', Frankie Goes To Hollywood

~+~

You get nightmares every Tuesday and Friday night.

I remember the first time I heard you scream in your sleep. Back when we were thirteen, you had nightmares every Wednesday and Thursday. That first time, it was a Wednesday; the early September night was bitterly cold and the rain slapped hard against the windows. I was amazed that any of us had been able to fall asleep at all.

I awoke. At first I thought the low moaning was the howl of the wind outside, until I'd come to my senses enough to be able to distinguish between the muddle of sounds. The wind was howling, but that's what it was -- a howl. This moaning was different, and much closer.

The drapes around your bed were open, and I could see your face. You were sleeping fitfully, as white and wet as snow; sweat beaded your forehead, collecting in the frown lines as you thrashed about. "No," you kept saying, over and over. "No, no, no." Then you whispered, "I'm innocent." You repeated it more loudly, then you screamed, "No!"

I was by your side in an instant, with my arms around your shaking body. You pressed your face into my neck and sobbed, and I was so frightened. I'd never seen you cry before. You were always laughing, and happy people didn't have nightmares. Or so I thought.

James's voice, made husky from sleep, sounded from the other side of the room. "What's wrong?" he asked. Your fists clenched convulsively at the back of my pyjama top. "Sirius?" James said. Now he sounded worried. He came across and perched on the bed, and you let me go and clung to him instead, like a drowning person clinging desperately to a floating tree-branch that's just too small to support his weight.

"I won't do it," you kept crying. "I won't, I'd never do it."

We asked what you'd been dreaming about, and then your brows creased. You said you couldn't remember. And the next morning, you had no recollection of waking up at all.

Fourth year, it was Monday and Wednesday nights. All four of us were bleary-eyed and exhausted, close to dozing off in our porridge every Tuesday and Thursday morning. You still didn't know what you were dreaming. Only that it was horrible, and that for some unexplainable reason you didn't want Peter to hug you until you stopped crying. Just James and me.

Fifth year was as bad as third, with the awful dreams coming on two consecutive nights. But that's the year you cracked the Animagus transformation, and you often slept in your dog form, perhaps because the dreams weren't as graphic when they came from your canine mind instead of your much more complex human mind.

Last year, James stopped comforting you when you cried. Not because he didn't love you or because you didn't want him, but because I began sleeping in your bed with you.

Our first kiss was just before Halloween. James was resting in the hospital wing after a nasty Quidditch injury, and when you woke up screaming his name and he wasn't there to comfort you, you started to panic. You were hyperventilating, and begging me to find him and tell him, "No, no, no, I'd never do it, I won't, no, and I'm so sorry." I asked what you were sorry for, and you said you didn't know. I asked if you wanted me to stay with you, and you said yes. You shifted across so I could get under your blankets, and I held you tight to me until you'd calmed down a little bit. Then you lifted your face to look at me, maybe to smile and offer a weak apology for your hysterics, as you always did, but then we suddenly realised that we COULDN'T speak, because we were kissing.

It was unexpected. I don't mind telling you that. But the wetness of our clumsy, inexperienced tongues and the way our fingers twined together and the press of your body, shaking with a DIFFERENT sort of fear now, against mine... it was addictive and beautiful and perfect. I felt as though I'd come home to a place I never knew I left.

And the next morning made me glow. I awoke in your arms, and the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was you. You were smiling at me. "I dreamed I was kissing you," you said. "It's the best dream I ever had." I told you it hadn't been a dream, and you kissed me again and murmured against my lips, "Then it's BETTER than any dream I've ever had."

I don't know why you remembered kissing me when you could never remember waking up after your nightmares, but the heady taste and woozy ecstasy when you did it again advised me to forget about it, and I tried.

You made light of our new situation later, tearing a ragged hole in your croissant and presenting the 'ring' to me at the breakfast table, getting down on one knee so you could loudly and dramatically ask me to marry you. We all laughed, and you made me wear the sticky bit of continental foodstuff until lessons began.

You took my hand and pulled me into an empty classroom after breakfast, so you could tell me that you'd meant what you'd said. I reminded you that we COULDN'T get married and that, even if we could, we were far too young anyway. You laughed. "I know," you said. "But I love you, and that's far more important than a crummy ring and a bit of parchment." Then you looked horrified with yourself, and turned your eyes to the floor. Your voice lowered too. "I don't believe I just said that," you muttered. "I mean, out loud. Like that."

"What do you mean?" I asked. "The bit about crummy rings?" I held up the croissant.

You smiled nervously. "No, the bit about loving you. I should have waited for a... special time, or something."

I dropped the croissant to a desk. "You're in love with me?" I asked. You nodded. "Then the rest of my LIFE will be a special time," I said.

THIS year, Divination lessons are on Tuesday and Fridays. I've stopped asking what you see in the crystal balls and tea-leaves, because you always make up silly, rude things about me being naked and wet, and broadcast them loudly to the rest of the class. Besides, I don't believe in Divination. I wish I hadn't chosen the stupid subject, but it's too late to change now.

And I don't believe your nightmares have anything to do with what goes on in that stuffy, incense-filled room. Well, I do, in a way. I believe you're frightening yourself, and letting that idiot woman Trelawney frighten you. Why do you apologise to James? That's proof enough for me that there's no truth to Divination, and that if there somehow IS, then it has nothing to do with your dreams. You'd never hurt James. You'd rather die. I know that, he knows it. YOU know it.

But I wish I knew what DOES make you wake in terror, what makes our sheets damp with your cold sweat every Tuesday and Friday night. That way, I could try to help you.

I love you so much, it half-kills me to see you in this pain. Do you know how much I love you? You don't. You could NEVER know, but I try to tell you. I try to SHOW you, as we make love with tongues of fire leaving burning trails where we run them. I hope it helps when I tell you that you'll never be alone, that I'll love you and keep you safe as much and for as long as I possibly can.

If words fail me, I'll tell you with my eyes. If we go blind, you'll know through the touch of my fingertips on your face. The telling is not important; it's the story that matters, and my story to you is not one of horror, but one of love.

~END~


End file.
